The Dusk and the Neon Lights

Some people have only one story or one poem, one painting, or one song in them. And it’s enough. But they don’t know that or appreciate it. And this unawareness sometimes leads to tragedy. The problem is that if their one work was successful, even moderately, some people begin to think of themselves as writers or poets, painters, or composers. They feel as if the creative life is their destiny. They may toil unhappily in what they call their “day job” and then spend every available spare moment pursuing their “true” calling, even at the expense of their family, friends, or health.

There is nothing wrong with having only one book in you. Let me say that another way. One book or one song is an incredible gift. But if the writer doesn’t recognize that, a problem can reveal itself, for example, during a friend’s book launch. While sipping wine, someone sidles over and asks, “What are you working on these days?” And there is no good answer. The more often the question is asked and the longer the time since the story was written, the poem published, the painting sold, or the song played on the radio, the more the pressure to produce increases.

If the artist were satisfied producing something beautiful, lasting, or meaningful, even if only one thing, they may be fine, for they see their writing or painting not as their destiny but as a joy, not as a destination they’ve been given, but as a pleasant stop along life’s way. I once knew an accomplished musician, an orchestra conductor who told me, their voice filled with sadness, “You are only as good as your last performance.” And they thoroughly believed that; therein lies the problem. An artist is not their performance, book, poem, painting, or song. I have heard it said, and believe it to be true, that a person is not defined by what they know nor by what they do but rather by what they are longing for.

I am reading a book by an author who drank the full bitter cup of literary tragedy. During World War II, he was in the US Navy and served on two attack cargo ships in the South Pacific. He had a way with words and was extremely sensitive to the emotions and thoughts of others. I will show you this in a few moments. In 1946, the year after the war ended, he published a book based on his experiences in the Navy. 

The book Mister Roberts by Thomas Heggen was a phenomenal success and sold over a million copies. It was adapted for the stage and starred Henry Fonda. Heggen and the play’s producer-director Joshua Logan won the first-ever Tony Award for Best Play in 1948. After Heggen died in 1949, Henry Fonda went on in 1955 to star in the movie Mister Roberts. The book also became a television series and a TV movie.

So, what happened? After the success of Mister Roberts, Heggen suffered a crippling case of writer’s block, fueled in part at least by his felt need to produce another book, another success. And he didn’t. But here in 2023, almost seventy-five years after his death, I am reading and enjoying enormously the one book he had in him. Let me give you an example of the beauty of Heggen’s writing. 

The book is loosely structured, like a series of short stories strung together, with an overarching main character, a naval officer, Mister Roberts. The excerpt below is from a chapter that details a night watch onboard the ship Reluctant, a midwatch, the midnight to four a.m. shift. It chronicles a discussion between Mr. Roberts and an enlisted man standing watch with him, a man named Carney. The boat is cruising in the South Pacific. During their conversation, Carney asks Roberts what time it is in San Francisco. Roberts tells him 8 p.m. Carney is flooded with fond memories of the bars in San Francisco and especially of one month spent living with, he uses a different term, a married woman whose husband wasn’t around. He goes on to show Roberts a picture of a young woman he plans to marry after the war is over. At some point in their conversation, Roberts no longer hears Carney; he is flooded with memories of his own.

He was thinking of the signs lighting up along Geary Street, and the lineup waiting for taxis in front of the Saint Francis, and the cable cars climbing Nob Hill, and the dusk settling on Nob Hill, filling up from the bay and from the city below. Eight o’clock in the nice bars—the Saint Francis and the Cirque Room at the Fairmont and the Top of the Mark and the Zebra Room at the Huntington—the air bright and murmurous with the laughter and the clink of glasses and the foolish, confidential talk; and over it all, soft and unheard and really astonishingly sad, the deep, slow rhythms of American dance music. And the girls, the fine, straight, clean-limbed American girls in their tailored suits, sitting, leaning forward, each talking with her escort, one hand extended on the table and just touching his sleeve. Or dancing tall and proud to the music that promised lovely and imperishable things.

He remembers the young officers sitting at the bar, watching the girls and looking for “they didn’t know what.” Yet, somehow, all of them thought they would find it.

…something that called at night with the dusk and the neon lights and swore to them that tonight, this very night, in this town, this bar, a thing of desperate loveliness would happen if only they found the right girl…the right bar, drank enough liquor, smoked enough cigarettes, heard enough talk, laughed enough. But they must hurry….What was it they were seeking? It wasn’t just a girl, although a girl was necessary. A girl wasn’t the total; she was just a factor. It was more than that, Roberts thought—what was it?

Say aloud those phrases: the deep slow rhythms of American dance music; the music promised lovely and imperishable things; and finally, this one, a thing of desperate loveliness. Oy! I had to stop reading for a while. The beauty of the writing was almost more than I could handle. I had to get up and walk around a bit. When I came back, I reread the passage. I’ve reread it several times since and shared it with my wife and now, with you.

Then, I read the next sentence: And the angry, critical, voice inside him answered….I’m not going to tell you what that voice said. I hope you come across the book someday and want to read it yourself. That would be a remarkable thing. It’s available on archive.org.

The one book Heggen had in him was more than enough. I wish he had known that. Thomas Heggen died on May 19, 1949, at age 30. If you want, you can read about his short life here.

My copy of Mister Roberts was printed by the Naval Institute Press in Annapolis, Maryland, and published in 1992 with a foreword by Thomas J. Cutler, USN (Ret.) and an Introduction by CDR David P. Smith, USN. The book was originally published in 1946 by Houghton Mifflin. I was unable to find a Kindle version.

Nothing I’ve written here should be construed as discouraging creative efforts. Quite the opposite. Your one great work may still be in you; you’ve just not gotten to it yet.

All the best,
Gershon